Little Lotte and The Phantom of The Opera
by ThatWeirdGirl183
Summary: No, what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head. Christine is a little girl who loves to sing and to be with her beloved father and her best friend, Raoul. But when her Daddy dies she becomes depressed. But will a certain Angel cheer her up? This is the story of Phantom from Christine's POV. Rating subject to change.
1. The Fair

Hello dear readers! This is my third story. I hope you like it!

I am typing this on my iPod, and autocorrect is coming up with really stupid results. I'm not even sure if some of them are real words.

Oh yeah, and I'm not ALW, Leroux, or Kay

* * *

Chapter 1

Hi! My name is Christine Daae! I'm ten years old, and I love performing with my Daddy! I am at a fair now, Daddy says it is right outside Paris! We will perform, which is fun, because the adults love me, and there are other children! I never get to see other children When I am not at the fairs.

"Are you ready, Little Lotte?", asks Daddy. I'm always ready to sing.

"Yes!"

He played his violin fast, while I sang, higher and higher. I loved it. Music is our passion, and I will never stop singing. Ever. Father has been teaching me to sing from a very young age. He said even as a very young child a showed much potential as a musician. Daddy slowed down on his violin to end the song.

We exited the stage and I ran toward the ferris wheel, which Daddy said I could ride on! I saw a boy about my age.

"Hello. What is your name? My name is Christine!"

"My name is Raoul. How are you?"

"I am happy. Thank you!"

"Do you want to ride with me?"

"Yes! Thank you!"

We went on the ferris wheel. When we got off, I introduced him to Daddy.

"This is Raoul, Daddy! I met him on the ferris wheel!"

"Hello Raoul. You're Christine's friend, aren't you?"

"Yes. And you were the violinist, correct?"

"Yes, dear boy, I am."

"Let us go meet my parents, shall we?" asked Raoul

"Of course!"

"Maman, Papa, this is Christine." An older boy and girl were there too.

"Hello, Christine" said the mother. The others just glared at me. I wonder why.

"Do you live in Paris?" I asked Raoul.

"I do. Why?"

"Because Daddy said he got a job in the Paris Opera House orchestra pit! We are moving there!"

"We can see each other!" said Raoul. The older girl groaned.

"I will see you in Paris!" I said, leaving with Raoul to play for the rest of the day.

By the time we had to leave, we were already friends. We were quick to bond, talking and playing games together, like we had known each other for years. It was very hard for our families to separate us.

"Raoul, we have to go!" his brother would yell.

"But, Phillipe, I want to play with Christine! Just a few more minutes?"

"No! Papa said right now!"

"But-" I would quietly protest.

"Christine, it is getting late. We should go." said Daddy. Raoul was still arguing with his brother.

"Raoul, if you don't come right now, I'll tell Papa what really happened to his watch."

"But Phillipe! You promised!"

"Promises can be broken."

"Fine. Goodbye, Christine."

"Goodbye, Raoul."


	2. DeChagny Manor

Hi! R&R! I don't own POTO!

* * *

Chapter 2

I was at the Paris Opera House a couple of days later when I saw Raoul again. He was a handsome boy with blond hair and blue eyes. We sat next to each other, entranced by the performance. I listened closely and could hear Daddy's violin above all the rest. It was like at the fairs,when he would play and I would listen ecstatically.

After the performance, Raoul asked me and Father over to his house, and we said yes.

DeChagny Manor was huge, and warm, But I felt as if I did not belong here. We played with Raoul's toy trains while My Father talked to Madame and Monsieur DeChagny.

"I'm bored. What do you want to do, Raoul?"

"Want to go see what Phillipe and Laure-Marie are doing?"

"Yes. I am curious about them because they will not speak to me." They never did. I wonder if they do not like me?

We went up to Phillipe's bedroom, where he was talking to his sister.

"Why are Maman and Papa allowing Raoul to mix with this common scum?" asked Laure-Marie.

"I do not know, dear sister. But Papa is definitely not happy with these Daaes in our home. I hear that they slept in barns in Sweden from Raoul."

"Disgusting!"

I couldn't believe that they would talk this way about me and Daddy! I did tell Raoul that Daddy and I slept in barns when we were at the fair after I introduced him to Father, along with other things, like how we never stayed anywhere for over a week, and he told me things like his Papa would get very angry if he left anything on the floor, and that Laure-Marie once bought awhole bunch of gold jewelry and no one except him noticed. But why is sleeping in a Barn disgusting? You get used to the smell.

"It fits them, however. They seem like they aren't even civilized." said Phillipe back to his younger sister.

"How dare they! Why would they speak this way about me, and especially about Daddy? We never did anything to them. We are decent people." I whispered to Raoul, angry and sad.

"It's just my brother and sister being snobbish. They think that they are superior to you because you are poor and they are rich. My Papa is like this too, but Maman is not."

"I want to go home. I do not feel like I belong here. I am sorry. But I still want us to be friends, if that is all right with you. Write a letter to me. Do you have a quill and paper, so I can write my adress?"

He left and came back quickly.

"Here." I wrote down my address on the paper.

"Goodbye, Raoul."

I went to find Father.

"Father, I want to go home."

"Of course, Little Lotte. Goodbye, Madame DeChagny." He ignored Raoul's Father.

Once we were out of DeChagny manor, I asked Father, " Was Monsieur DeChagny mean to you?"

"A bit. He said we were dirty, and some other mean things that I do not want you to worry about. But I liked his wife very much. She was very kind. Was Raoul mean to you, my sweet?"

"No. He was wonderful. But his brother and sister were awful. We heard them talking when we meant to stop in and see what they were doing."

"I see. Don't worry about what they say. They cannot see past our status in society. They are not worth it, my love."

"Thank you. I love you, Daddy Daae."

"I love you too, Miss Christine."

When we got to our home, a tiny cottage by the sea just outside of Paris, we went into our bedroom, where he would play his violin before we both went to bed, the waves crashing soothingly. This cottage is where I belong. With my Father and our art.

Life is good.


	3. Little Lotte

Disclaimer: This will not be exactly like Kay, or Leroux, or ALW, and a lot of the characters could possibly be stolen from other fanfics (if you want credit, tell me and I'll give you credit.). This is my/Christine's retelling, and many things can also be made up or left out, depending on what I do with Christine after her Daddy dies.

And do you like getting flamed? Didn't think so.

And sorry for lack of Raoul-bashing, I'll try to add that at some point. But he is Christine's friend, so it's hard to bash him. But I do hate him as much as you do.

Random thing: I am currently listening to the POTO cast album, and Prima Donna just ended. Do you think the original Carlotta had too good a voice to play Carlotta? I do. Except the croak.

And Erik will be in the story! I promise! What's The Phantom of The Opera without The Phantom of The Opera? Just… when the time is right.

* * *

Chapter 3

I woke up the next morning, with Daddy right by my side, because our house has one bedroom, and I am scared of the dark without Daddy. We had breakfast, which was fast and quiet, like it usually is, because we are just waking up.

I was still taking in the house's details. It had faded floral wallpaper. Is was faded because someone already lived here before we did, which sounded both daunting and intriguing. Th. Flowers were pink and blue roses. The light was half burnt out, but the light source was pretty, like a small chandelier. It looked not run-down, but lived-in. But we should replace the lightbulb. The little furniture we had was wooden, and most of it was left by the person who lived here last because it was cheap and easily breakable. But it was more inviting than DeChagny manor. And we don't judge people based on their wealth.

After breakfast, Daddy took me to the sea.

"Daddy, do you know how to swim?" I asked him, while we sat on the sand on the shore.

"Little Lotte, I haven't the slightest idea." he said. Daddy had a very soft,kind voice. Just hearing him speak made me feel safe and happy. We just played in the sand. We make a big, beautiful castle, with shell and seaweed decorations.

Just then, a mother and a son were walking up to us. I soon recognized them.

"Madame DeChagny?" asked Daddy.

"Raoul?" I asked.

"He was very upset. He missed you very much, Christine" said Madame DeChagny.

"He did?" I asked her. Raoul blushed.

"I did." he said, seeming embarrassed. I smiled. "I like your castle."

"Father helped me make it. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"What would you like to do, Raoul?"

"I don't know."

"Father tells excellent stories! Would you like that, Raoul?"

Raoul nodded. We went into the attic, which is where Daddy usually told his stories. We lit a candle.

"Tell the story of Little Lotte and The Angel Of Music!" I said. It was my favorite story.

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was as dark as night and her eyes clear and blue as her soul. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all, she loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music."

Little Lotte is very lucky to hear the Angel of Music. The angel plays a part in all of my Daddy's stories. He maintains that every great musician, every great artist, gets visited by the Angel at least once in his (or her) life. Sometimes the Angel leans over their cradle, as happened to Lotte, and that is how little prodegies who play the violin at six better than men at fifty, which is a very wonderful thing. Sometimes the Angel comes later, because the children refuse to learn their lessons or practice their scales, and sometimes he doesn't visit at all, because the children have a bad heart or consience.

No one ever sees the Angel of Music, but they are heard by those who are meant to hear him, usually when they least expect it, like when they are sad or disheartened. Then, their ears suddenly hear beautiful harmonies, a divine voice which they will remember all their lives. Those who are visited by the Angel of Music quiver with a thril unknown to the rest of mankind. And, they cannot touch an instrument or open their mouths to sing without producing sounds that put all other human sounds to shame.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Have you ever heard the Angel of Music?"

He just shook his head sadly. But Daddy was a great musician! One of the best!

"But, Christine, you will! When I am in Heaven, I will send him to you!"

"Really?"

"Would I lie?"

"Thank you, Daddy!"

He continued with the story, as I began to wonder about the Angel, and why he never spoke to Daddy. Daddy was a great musician with an amazingly kind heart. The Angel loves these people.

But, one day, when I am older, I will see the Angel of Music.


	4. Picnics in the Attic

Hi! Thanks for reviewing, and for favoriting and following. I hope you like this chapter.

* * *

Chapter 4

I began to see Raoul regularly. It has been about a month since he came over for the first time. He usually comes over twice every week. His mother takes him, never his father. But I am actually kind of afraid of Raoul's Papa from what he says about him. He says that his father yells very often, and dislikes music, and Raoul also said he overheard him arguing with his mother about allowing Raoul to befriend me. We, however, did not care, other than the fact that I do not like it when people are displeased by me.

Aside from Father, of course, Raoul is my best friend. We share stories, play, and are inseparable when we are together.

Raoul is over at my house. We (me, Raoul, Daddy, and Madame DeChagny) are having a picnic in the attic. We were having dinner, and it was around sunset. The attic is the place where we have played the most, and we often have picnics in there, and tell stories. Daddy was telling an old Swedish tale. I have heard it many times, but Raoul and his mother had not. We were all, however, wrapped up in Daddy's story. I could have finished his sentences if I wanted to, but I did not.

After Daddy finished the story, Madame DeChagny whispered to me:

"I am glad that you are friends with Raoul. Not my entire family is, but I am. You and your father… you're not like most of the people that I know."

"That is a compliment?"

"Yes, my darling."

"Thank you."

"Christine? Do you want to hear about Little Lotte?" asked Raoul. We both loved that story.

"Yes, please!"

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing…" Father started. It took him a week to tell me all of the story, in little parts, when I was very young. Now he tells the story as a whole. When I was little, he began to start calling me Little Lotte, like I am Lotte. Although I am not truly Lotte, I an very much like her. I look like her, and I love music and singing.

I listened to the story like is was a beautiful song.

"And that, is the story of Little Lotte and the Angel." said Daddy, as he always did to end the story.

I jumped into Daddy's lap. There was a brief moment of silence for no reason that I am aware of.

"Raoul, it is getting very late. We must go." said Madame.

"Yes, Maman." said Raoul. It must have been past his bedtime. Usually he would put up a fight to stay.

"Goodbye!" I said.

"Goodbye, Christine and Monsieur Daae." Said Madame.

"Goodbye." said Raoul.

Raoul and Madame left.

* * *

It was very dark, except for the many candles lit in the attic. I was still sitting in Daddy's lap.

My Daddy was an older man, with a few wrinkles on his face. He was very pale, with blond hair that was turning white and light blue eyes. He looked like he was Swedish. I do not. My mother, who died in birth of who was supposed to be my little brother (he died too-so sad!) when I was six, was French, and looked like me. That is how I know French, my mother always spoke it to me. I can barley remember her, but I do miss her very much

But I will always have Daddy. I love him more than I will ever love anyone.

"I love you, Daddy."

" I love you too, Little Lotte. Never doubt it. You make me very happy, just being around you."

" So do you." I snuggled in closer. Even when the world was in complete darkness, I had light and warmth as long as Father was alive. I was a happy person with Daddy.

"Will you sing me the lullaby?" I asked him. The lullaby is an old Swedish song-a lullaby-that my parents sang to me when I was a baby, and up until now.

"Of course, Child." said Father. He began to sing, and it started to soothe me, putting me to sleep while I was being carried to the bed.

"Good night, dear Christine."

"Goodnight, Daddy." I mumbled, before closing my eyes.


	5. Sweden and the Opera Ghost

Hello dear readers! It is I, ThatWeirdGirl183, and I am here to bring you another installment of Little Lotte and the Phantom of the Opera.

If you would like to favorite, follow, or review, then do. If you would not then… um… don't.

This is going to be a longer chapter, in three little parts. Just in case you were wondering why my story just gained a bunch of words.

I hope you like this story.

* * *

Chapter 5

As a very young child, I lived outside Uppusala, in a small town in Sweden. We were never rich, but we weren't in poverty. My family farmed for a living, nothing uncommon. But my father, he played violin, as you already knew, and his music was the most beautiful music our entire tiny town has heard. People would gather around Daddy to listen to him play, and even to hear me sing. My mother was French, and her family moved to Sweden when she was sixteen, and Daddy said that they fell in love the moment they met. I remember that my mother was very shy, and loved to read, and that we loved each other very much.

But, when I was six, my mother was due to have a child-my baby brother!-but she died in childbirth. On top of that, while he was being born, my baby brother died.

After Mama died, Daddy and I spent a while after in mourning in our little house. Then, out of the blue, Daddy decided that we will move to Upusala to be musicians, and we went broke. We got some jobs playing and singing at fairs and at concerts, but barely made enough to survive on.

But things got so much better. We got more and more jobs, and Daddy, finally, found a stable job playing violin in the Paris Opera House pit orchestra, where we could stay in France.

Now, I just turned eleven, and Daddy is currently first-chair first violin in the orchestra. I have resumed my singing lessons, and I am really getting better.

* * *

Daddy and I came to the home of Daddy's friend, Madame Antionette Giry.

Madame Giry was widowed, and always wears black. Or at least, I think that is why she always wears black. She has black hair that is always in a bun or Can braid, and she never smiles. But she is very nice to me and Daddy.

We go into her flat, and I see a petite blond girl reading some type of romance novel. This girl was Meg Giry, Madame Giry's daughter. She was a ballerina, and a very good one. She is even teaching me a few things.

"Hello, Christine!" said Meg.

"Hello, Meg! What is that?" I pointed to her book.

"I don't know most of what I just read."

"Can you teach me more ballet?" I asked her.

"Yes." was what she said.

We went into her bedroom, where she attempted to teach me how to do a jump ethat looked graceful. When I failed, we decided to just talk.

"How did my Daddy meet your Mama?" I would ask Meg.

"Your Papa works at the Opera house, does he not?"

"He does."

"So does Maman. She is the ballet mistress. That is probably how they know each other."

We talked about other boring, trivial things that neither of us seemed to really care about. We decided to go check on our parents.

"These rumors are true, Monsieur, there is an Opera ghost!" I heard Madame Giry say to Father.

"I do not know, Madame. A ghost?" he replied, seeming nervous.

"There is a ghost?" I asked Meg, in disbelief.

"Ah, yes. The Phantom of the Opera. I hear about him from the ballet girls and the stagehands when I come." Meg is not yet a ballet girl. She is not on pointe just yet, and she is not old enough, so she cannot be. But she comes very often, like me, but I have never heard of the Phantom of the Opera.

"Why haven't I ever heard of him?"

"Your Papa plays in the orchestra pit, correct?"

"Yes."

"That is why. No one there talks about the ghost, because most of the members of the orchestra do not believe in him, or they are too busy with their instruments. However, if your Papa was a stagehand or a singer, then you would be around more of those people, and hear about the Phantom all the time."

"I understand."

We went into the living room, where Daddy and Madame Giry were still talking about the opera ghost.

"Oh, hello Meg and Christine" said Daddy.

"Tell us about the Opera Ghost! Christine doesn't know about him."

"That may be for the best, dear Meg." Madame Giry replied.

"I want to know." I said.

"Christine, do not be frightened, this is all rubbish." Daddy whispered to me.

"I am not frightened. I know he is not real."

"Can you be certain of that, Madmoiselle?" asked Madame Giry.

"I am sorry." I apologized, because maybe he is real.

* * *

The next day, it was just me and father. We woke up and had breakfast, and got dressed.

Then, we go to the Opera, when I try to find Meg. She was backstage, with the younger ballet girls, and an old bald man.

"He has skin like old yellow parchment, and he has no nose. He carries a magical lasso, that he throws around the necks of those who displease him!"

"Is that true?" I asked, nervous.

"Well, little girl, what do you think happened to the old stagehand, and to the cellist?" the old man retorted.

I ran away, to the orchestra pit entrance, scared. I knew that the stagehand and cellist must have either died of natural causes or be made up. Must they?

After the performance, which was that night, Daddy and I went home.

"Was there a stagehand or a cellist who died recently?" I asked while we had dinner.

"Yes."

"I heard an old stagehand talking about it to Meg and a few ballet girls. He said it was the Ghost!"

"Christine, that must have been Buquet. He just likes to get the attention of you girls. It doesn't mean a thing."

"Of course, Daddy."

After dinner, he told me the story of Little Lotte yet again, and then put me to bed.


	6. Four Years Later

Hello readers! I am probably, from now on, only going to update once or twice a week. I need time to edit the story, and starting Saturday, I'm in a play, so I'll be busy.

This is four years later than the last chapter.

* * *

Chapter 6

The sky was bright with stars and the beautiful, full silver moon shone on Raoul, Father, and I as we had a magnificent night on the beach in Perros-Guriec. We were the only three there, and Father played his violin and told us stories, as usual. But we loved his music and stories. They fascinated us, because they were so beautiful.

We were having a wonderful time in Paris, but Father grew homesick recently. He stayed in Paris, but, sometimes, when he wasn't playing at the Opera House, he would take me, and sometimes even Raoul, to Perros-Guriec. He says that it reminds him of Sweden, our home. I love it here too, especially because Father only seems to be truly happy here. I do not like seeing him sad, because he always makes me happy, even when he missed living in Sweden so much that I know he truly is crying, and depressed, alothough he will attempt to hide it from me.

But here, we are all happy. Raoul comes here with his family during the summer, so he too is used to being here.

"Christine?" Raoul whispered.

"Yes, Raoul?"

"I love you." lately, Raoul has been saying that he loves me very often. I would not say that we are together, but we have kissed, and I do feel a warm, nervous, and happy feeling when I am around him. And I may love him, too.

Father was playing the violin, and we were listening to him. Everything just felt so perfect, with my Father and my friend, the people I am closest to.

After a perfect night of music and stories, we, meaning Father and I, as Raoul was living in his second house with his family, had to go back to Paris. Father had to be at the Opera House for all of tomorow.

"Can you really send me the Angel of Music, Father?" I asked him, before I went to bed. I still loved the story of Little Lotte. Father would always tell it to me to put me in a good mood, to put me to bed, or just to entertain me.

"Yes. When I am in Heaven, I will send him to you." That was when I realized that he meant that he would send me the Angel when he dies.

"But…but Father! I- I do not want you to die!"

"My dear, at some point, I have to. Goodnight, my love."

Father and I still shared a bed at home, because we felt safer and happier when we were together, and because I was afraid of the dark.

But I never really imagined what would happen if Father died. It would be a terrible loss,definitely. But, what would happen? I had no idea, and I did not want to think about it. It scared me. Without him, I am lost. He has been my one companion for so long.

I could not lose my Father.


	7. The Death That Changed Everything

Hello, my wonderful readers! I hope you like this chapter, and please read and review.

If I have waited too long before posting, sorry. School, homework, and an audition coming up in my life.

Also, sorry if the whole walking into a hospital and getting a doctor thing is inaccurate. But I don't think that they had insurance in 19th century France. It may also be medically inaccurate. I'm not a doctor.

* * *

Chapter 7

I am very worried. You see, Father is ill. He is in pain for most of the day, and sometimes, he is too weak to walk. I help him, when he is like this. But I am still quite uneasy. I want him to be all right.

"Father, I am nervous for you. We should come to the city. Maybe we can get a doctor.", I said on a day where his pain was very great.

"My child, I will be fine."

"But you cannot walk!" I hugged him, not letting go, "I am scared, Father. I do not want anything to happen to you. I love you."

"My dear…", he said, seeming tired, "you may be right. We shall go."

We went to Paris, and came straight to the hospital, hoping we could get a doctor.

"Sir?" I approached a doctor.

"Yes, Madmoiselle?"

"My Father is very ill."

"What is his condition?" asked the doctor.

"I do not know, sir." said Father.

"He is in constant pain, very weak, and bleeds and bruises very easily." I said. Maybe he would understand the symptoms. I hope he does.

"I will see what the problem is." said the doctor.

* * *

For the next few days, I lived at the hospital. I looked after Father, while the doctor gave him medicine or took blood for a test.

Whenever Father was afraid, or nervous, or did not know whether or not he would be all right, I would soothe him. When I was a child, and I was sick, I would sometimes get scared. But I never knew that Father would experience that fear. But this, it must have been so much scarier, and more painful than any sickness that I would have gotten as a little girl. But things looked good. The doctor said he would survive. He may be weak, but he will live to be perfectly fine other than that. I believed the doctor. It made me happy to think that Father is safe and we will move on after this ordeal is over.

* * *

It was supposed to be the night Father got released from the hospital.

The doctor came in to our room with painful news.

"The disease that you have, Monsieur Daae, is not what we thought it was."

"What do I have?" asked Father, seeming scared.

"That," said the Doctor, "Is what we are trying to figure out. All we know so far is that your blood tests suggest that your condition is much more severe than we believed it was."

"What will happen?" I asked, my eyes widened in fear.

"Well, under these conditions, it…it could be fatal."

"No!" I shouted aloud.

"Daddy, you cannot die! I love you! Daddy!" I held him. At this point, we were both absolutley terrified, and very, very sad. We were telling each other that everything will be fine in the end, that maybe he will live. But we did not even believe ourselves. We were in the dark, cold hospital room, him on his bed and me kneeling by it, crying and hugging him tightly.

The doctor had tried different treatments, but we were told that they may not be effective at this point in his disease.

* * *

Midnight, the doctor was not in the room. It was just me and Father. We still were huddled together in each other's presence, making sure we knew that we were both alive at the moment. It did not ease my dread at all, as we were in silence when we, many times, told stories and had conversations. I buried my head in his chest to cry even harder.

"Christine?" Father broke the silence.

"Father?"

"I think it is my time."

"Your time?"

"Time to die." I put my head back into his chest, sending warmth and a heartbeat. Warmth fading, and a heartbeat becoming slower. My head shot up.

"I love you." was all I could manage to say. I wish that I was lying on that bed ready to die. It would save me much pain, and many lifeless days without Father. He has known life without me. I have never known it without him. But this is not something I can change. But if I could, I would do whatever it took.

"I love you too, Christine, my Little Lotte. The Angel of Music will come to you, child. You are the most important person in my life, I just want you to know."

"You are the most important person to me." I could sense him becoming weaker. An ecstatic expression crossed his face. Then his once clear, sparkling eyes glazed over, and his body went limp.

I put my hand over his heart. No heartbeat. His body was not as warm as it once was. I closed his eyes.

My Father, my one companion, is dead.

I collapsed on top of his body, and cried myself to sleep. My dreams were but warm memories of him, that I would wake from and realize it was all gone. I would cry more and then repeat.

* * *

I woke for the last time with the doctor standing by the door.

"Madmoiselle Daae?" I did not respond.

"Madmoiselle? Madmoiselle!" the last time he says this, he is angrily yelling.

"Yes?"

"I am sorry for your loss." That is when I decided that I hated the doctor. I had never hated anyone before. He did not even care! Why does he not care about a death? His tone was full of false sympathy.

I replied with a cold "Thank you." and held the body tighter.

"Where is your mother? I cannot leave a child alone."

"My mother is dead."

"Anyone else, then?"

"Madame Antoinette Giry. She lives right by the Opera Populaire." He left me. I resumed my teary mourning.

* * *

That afternoon, I was still on that hospital bed. Madame Giry and Meg had entered the room. They cried and missed him, too. I slipped off the bed.

They took me home. Not that beautiful house by the sea, which I would never see again. The Giry's flat.

They would lead me to their guest room, which is now my bedroom.

All I did was lie their and grieve and mourn. It was all that I wanted to do.


	8. Notes From My Dead Family

Hi! I hope you like this chapter. It is mostly an outline of what Christine's life is like with the Girys.l also really want to thank my excellent readers for being awesome. Especially those of you who review. You're so supportive and helpful.

* * *

Life at the Girys was different than life at the hospital. Of course, Father was not there, so there was little hope in my life, and I thought about and missed him constantly without him here to comfort me. I could see out a window to the streets of Paris, although I wish I could not. I was jealous of the people there, the children playing on the streets. The families.

The one thing that is the same? I have not left the room I am currently in for three days, which was since I was brought here. Madame Giry usually tries to bring me meals, and Meg asks if I want to talk. I always reject their offers. Until today, when I was given something that I truly needed.

Madame Giry came in to my bedroom.

"Christine, I have forgotten to give you something that should have given you at the hospital."

"Give me what?"

"This." Madame Giry held out a box that read: **For My Dearest Daughter, Christine **on the top. I opened it. The box was full of pictures and notes from my parents.

"How did you get this?" I had asked her.

"Believe it or not, I have been friends with your Father for a long time. Your Mother was my late husband's sister. Her name was Emilie Giry. Your father intended to put you in my care after he died, because he trusts me. He gave me this box to give to you. Your father was well aware that you loved him very much, and I can assure you, he returned every bit. He knew this would comfort you and help you remember your family." Madame Giry explained. She then left the room.

I looked into the box. I found, at the top, a letter. It read:

_Dear Christine,_

_If you are reading this letter, I am probably gone. You, my poor little Angel, are probably upset about my death. But, my love I promise that things will get better. You will have the Angel of Music, and, in your mind, you will still have me, Little Lotte. You have always had the most active imagination. I am sure that you will be able to remember me, and even your mother. In this box, I have pictures and letters and some other things that will help you to do so, in my hope of comforting you. _

_I have loved you forever, even before I knew you would exist, I wanted a daughter just like you. You were an even better daughter. You are a dream come true, Christine. The rest of the world should know so, too. You will do great things._

_ With much love,_

_ Your father, Gustave Daae_

Father.

I could hear his voice in my mind, speaking the words on the paper. His voice was soft and warm, and innocent sounding. It comforted me.

I looked through the box. I found a crucifix necklace, which he had worn often when I was young. I put it around my neck. I found a picture of me, him, and my mother in our farmhouse in Sweden. I remember taking that. I was five years old, and we could finally afford to get a photograph taken, so we did. We wanted to remember our family.

I also found a large group of love notes. One of them, from my Father, just said I Love You.

Three words that meant so much. Father made me know that meaning. But now that Father is gone, I do not. I put the box on the floor and cried.

Then I began to cry harder, because there was no Angel of Music, and I am lonely, without a father or a mentor. Then I thought I should go to Father for comfort. Then I rememebered why I was crying in the first place.

Then, I quieted. I heard a voice. Soft and warm like Father's. Heavenly. It was not in my mind, I swear. It was real. It sang an old Swedish lullaby that Father had often sung me to sleep in, or to make me feel safe when I was afraid.

"Do not cry, child." said the voice. I was fascinated.

"Angel? Father?" I asked.

"Yes, my wonderful little girl. I am your Angel of Music."


	9. The Angel's Visit

Hi. It's me.

Erik is in the story! Yeah!

Sorry for waiting so long to post. I have a busy life and had writer's block.

Also, PhantomFan01, I don't even really know what disease Daddy Daae had. It was supposed to resemble some form of leukemia, but I'm not a doctor.

And, to Angel's Wings, what does "Du Satem" mean?

* * *

"My angel, you are so wonderful for coming to me. And for coming to Father, right before his," I choked out the word, "death.". I saw the ecstacy on his face. It had to have been the Angel finally coming to him. What else could it be?

"My dear child, it was and is my pleasure. Your Father is a wonderful man. I should have came to him earlier. But what about you, my Christine? A bird cannot fly on broken wings. But I will work to mend those wings, my beautiful bird, and you will soar!" Even hearing him speak is a wonderful gift to the ears. More comforting still, he spoke Swedish to me, not French, reminding me of how happy I was with my family in Sweden. Ever since we arrived in France, Father only spoke Swedish to me when we were alone and it was nighttime, when he was trying to soothe me. I hadn't heard Swedish since that night when he died. And, when Raoul wasn't around, he would tell me stories in Swedish.

"My Father told stories of you. He had often spoke of your divine voice, how you bring a thrill to those who are meant to hear you! And it is so true, too." I was filled to the brim with that thrill at that moment. I then began to feel myself being pulled, as if by a magnetic force, to the mirror. The feeling sneaked in to my mind with my thirll, facination, and comfort. I obeyed the pull and went to the mirror. I saw myself, my blue eyes wide, same as my smile. The mirror was also the strongest point of my Angel's voice. I must have unconsciously knew.

"Now, dear girl, I shall sing to you, to comfort you. Tomorow, we begin lessons, but you cannot sing when you are crying every note. You are crying, my sweet." I looked into the mirror. I was. I still wept for Father, although he spoke to me through this divine angel. I, as always loved the Angel. But I still did want Father here. I always would.

"Sing the lullaby again. It makes me happy in this sadness." I asked him. When his voice came into my room singing it, it sounded so perfect. So beautiful. He did, and I listened ecstatically, like I would do for Father when he played his violin. It reminded me perfectly of it. It filled me with nostalgia and happiness, together. I shut my eyes to listen, he kept singing, his soft, sweet voice filling the room that once seemed dark and cold. I knew the angel was not always this way, and could be harsh and demanding, but I did not care. I wanted to hear him, for him to make me a better singer, as Father said that he would. He was exactly as Father described him. But… but he was more like Father than I had expected. My Father had been this comforting. This kind. This caring. I did not know he would pay me this much attention

He sang songs from the operas that I loved, and songs that Father and I had shared. He makes me feel better. Happier. He sang to me until the middle of the night, where I was half asleep and very grateful to my Angel of Music.

"Goodbye, dear. I must go. I will be here tommorow." that woke me. I could not be with him tomorow!

"I am sorry. I will not. I cannot miss Daddy's funeral, Angel. I am very sorry.

"That is reasonable. But I am expecting you the day after. Goodnight."

"Angel!" I called after him. I wanted Daddy to know how I felt. I wanted his unseen presence around me, as well, a little longer.

"Christine?"

"Tell my Father I love and miss him dearly. Tell him I will always miss him, until we are reunited."

"Yes, my love. But, Christine, I am sure that your Father would not have wanted you to be miserable. He would want you to miss him, but not for it to take your life over. Goodnight, sleep well."

He sang the lullaby as he left. The night was peaceful and beautiful. Since Father's death, for the first time, I was at peace.


	10. The Funeral

Hi! Sorry I haven't been on ff in a while! I've fixed the chapter with quire a bit of help (to the person who helped me: I don't know whether or not you want me to tell the other readers).

* * *

I walked into the church clad in all black (as usual, since Daddy has left us, I had been wearing black clothes ) with Madame Giry and Meg. I saw distant and immediate relatives of mine, some who I recognized, some who I did not. I have not seen the ones that I recognized for nine years or more.  
"That is his daughter!" said a blonde woman I did not recognize.

"It is? Oh, the poor dear!" Replied the skinny one.

They had no idea what it was like.

I heard many more whispers of this nature as I walked down the aisle of the church, to the front. I saw Father's body lying there. He had a bouquet of white roses on his chest. He looked so unlike the Father I knew. Cold and dead, not like the man who has taken care of me all these years, loved me, and comforted me through the pain.  
I carried a handkerchief in my little black purse. I am glad I did, because even before the preacher started speaking, I was bawling. I missed my Daddy so, so much. I wished he would wake up, I wished he would take me back to the house, and we could resume our peaceful, happy life like nothing had ever happened. Just me and my dear Father once again. My impossible dream.

The preacher began to talk about my father, how he was raised by average farmers in a small town in Sweden but was educated on the violin from a very young age by his Grandfather, a musician. The Preacher talked about how he had fallen madly in love with Emilie Giry, a French woman , that was Madame Giry's little cousin. How Emilie and Gustave had me, and how we were happy. How Father loved me and my mother more than anything. One day, my mother died, along with my brother, Charles. I remember their funeral. I was so sad, suffering greif for the first time at six. I had dreamed of having a little brother, taking care of him with our parents, loving and playing with him. Instead, I mourned the loss of not just him, but my sweet, loving mother. But theirs was bearable, for I was in Father's arms. I had only Madame as a parent now, whom I loved. The problem, however, that she was often completely emotionless. But here, even she let a tear fall. She was practically Father's sister, she says. They were best friends ever since my they had met at Father's wedding to mother.

The preacher continued, speaking about how Gustave came to Uppsala, with his:" Dear little daughter". We found poverty there, sleeping on the hay of a barn every night, but we were happy anyway. He spoke of his fond memories, most of which were my happy memories too.

"Monsieur Daae's daughter, Christine, would like to say a few words in memory of her father." said the preacher.

I dragged by body up to the altar. I felt like there was a thousand sacks of rocks on my back. Crying makes me feel weak, being sad makes me feel heavy. I don't think anyone else gets like this, but I do. I finally got there, after tripping twice.

"I am Christine. I want to t-t-tell you about D-Daddy," I said, in tears still, for they do not ever cease. "I loved him. I mean, I love him. Death cannot stop my love for him. Daddy has been my one c-companion." I stopped talking, for I could not speak. I lay a red rose on Father's chest, kissed him, and sat.

I could not imagine how someone like Father could die so quickly, so horribly. He was such a good person, happy, and a great musician. And most of all, so loved by his child. So loved.

After the funeral, Father was buried in a graveyard in Perros-Guriec. I saw him in ths coffin, so haunting, so faded, so dead, with his dusty violin resting on his chest. Seeing someone so close to me look like that made me lose my mind completely. I lost it, falling to the ground as the men had lifted Daddy's casket to bury it. I reached out and cried out:

"Daddy! Wait! Daddy! I love you! I love you more than life! More than anything! Daddy! I l-l-l-love you! Don't leave me!" I cried. I lay on the ground, my tears fertilizing the grass.

The men, not listening, buried my darling father, with his violin.

I would never see the kind face again, or the violin that is close to both of our hearts. They had installed a gravestone that read;

Daae

1824-1880  
Beloved father, husband and brother. You stay in our hearts.

It was a cold night, a seemingly starless, almost moonless night. Only darkness. No beautiful stars, no lights to gaze at. I was just a lost child in the chilly, dark night.

When we got to the Giry's flat, I flopped onto my bed, weeping.

I couldn't sleep, I just rolled in bed... But I felt something.

The Angel of Music was there. I felt his presence. He played the violin to comfort me. I allowed myself to pretend that it was Daddy. I needed the pretense. Because although I had my wonderful, perfect angel, I needed my father more.

But I needed to learn to say goodbye to the one I love the most. It would be painful, but it was the truth which I must face, for I was no longer a little child.

I had to let go.


End file.
